


A Thousand Miles More

by concavepatterns



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: (a tag I never thought I'd use but here we are), Bottom Steve Rogers, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Frottage, M/M, Magical Healing Cock, Massage, Oral Sex, Porn with Feelings, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Soft Stucky, The Steve Rogers Method of Literally Trying to Outrun Your Feelings, so many feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-03
Updated: 2017-12-16
Packaged: 2018-11-08 12:48:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11081916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: Steve still runs hard, still forces himself to the brink of his limits, only now it’s not an escape. Now he runs with purpose. Because he knows exactly what’s waiting for him when he crosses that finish line.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've been wanting to write some soft stucky (i.e. old sappy men in love) so here we are. Enjoy!

 

“You’re not just tryin’ to show me up,” Sam had told him once, early on in their friendship, following a particularly grueling run where Steve had lapped the other man until he couldn’t keep count any longer; until his legs had burned and his lungs had ached and his heart felt like it was going to kick straight out of his chest. “You’re tryin’ to lose yourself, man. But the harder you keep pushing, the less you’re gonna move forward.”

 

Steve still runs hard, still forces himself to the brink of his limits, only now it’s not an escape. Now he runs with purpose. Because he knows exactly what’s waiting for him when he crosses that finish line.

 

* * *

 

 

The apartment’s unlocked when he gets home and Steve gravitates straight towards the shower, peeling off sweat-soaked clothing as he goes and letting each item drop to the floor behind him like a trail of Under Armour bread crumbs. Bucky’ll give him shit for it later, he knows, but right now Steve’s only priority is feeling hot water slide over tired muscles.

It’s a good sort of ache, the kind that comes from accomplishing something, but he still winces when he bends to pull off shoes and socks, trying to move as quickly as he can despite the way the motion sparks a dull flare of pain in his thighs. Because if there were ever a perfect moment for Bucky to put his silent assassin skills to use, materialize behind him and make some dry, smart remark about aging and hip joints, this would be it. Steve, unfortunately, knows this from experience. He figures it’s only the serum that’s kept his heart from giving out at this point. In fact, he’s kind of surprised that Bucky hasn’t sidled up and scared the shit out of him already. Between sharpening their kitchen knives and devouring Steve’s modest collection of sci-fi paperbacks, it seems to be one of his favourite hobbies.

Steve has half a mind to complain about it someday, but then he thinks of the way Bucky’s whole face’ll light up; the tightness around his eyes and mouth relaxing till he instantly looks younger, more carefree, so much like the Bucky Steve remembers from dance halls and dim bars and ratty old army tents, and well...he never could resist that Barnes smile.

He’s balanced one-handed against the doorframe of the bathroom, trying rather unsuccessfully to yank off his second sock, when he hears it: a soft scuffling sound, a muted _thump_ , and then a litany of colourful curses in varying languages.

The grin that spreads across Steve’s face is automatic. Instinctual. He’d know that voice – especially that tendency to swear like a rowdy, boozed-up sailor – anywhere.

“Doing alright in there, Buck?” He calls out, abandoning the last of his undressing in favour of wandering over towards the bedroom, trying to arrange his expression into something that’ll pass as more concerned than amused.

“ _Shit_ ,” Bucky swears with feeling, voice strangely muffled, and when Steve steps into the room, he can immediately see why.

Bucky’s standing off to one corner, partially wedged in beside the dresser, one arm awkwardly bent up and head swallowed by a tangle of familiar red, white and blue fabric.

Steve, ever the picture of grace and composure, proceeds to choke on his next breath of air.

“Is that – you – you tried on the suit?” He finally manages to wheeze out, voice oddly strangled as he tries to get a grip on himself, openly staring at the sight in front of him because _dear_ _god,_ what a sight it is.

The bottom half of the Cap suit is sitting low on Bucky’s hips, showing off hard, lightly tanned abs, and with the way his left arm’s gotten stuck in the twisted, bunched up material of one sleeve, the curve of Bucky’s spine is more pronounced than usual; a generous slope from broad back to tapered waist. He looks like a goddamn marble sculpture. A study in cut muscle and smooth, golden flesh. One half of Steve is itching to go grab his sketchbook. The other half might need to sit down for a while.

When Bucky’s head finally surfaces from the tangle, he looks torn between issuing a death threat and wanting to die himself.

“Fuckin’ help me outta this thing,” he grumbles, panting slightly. His face is flushed, hair a rat’s nest of dark, tangled brown, and there’s an ‘I dare you to say something’ look of challenge in his eyes as they narrow down into what Steve can only assume is supposed to be an intimidating glare.

It’s not. Intimidating, that is. Not even in the slightest.

Instead it’s probably the most honest-to-god adorable thing Steve’s ever laid eyes on, and that includes the reams of baby animal videos Natasha seems weirdly compelled to bombard him with at 2 a.m. (he isn’t sure he’ll ever figure that one out, honestly).

His tongue feels glued to the roof of his mouth, dry and heavy and awkward, and Steve can’t even begin to formulate any kind of reply. He’s still too busy staring. And maybe (definitely) gaping a bit (a lot) like a dying goldfish.

Lucky for him, Bucky’s too preoccupied with his own cranky tirade to notice Steve’s widened eyes and sudden bout of muteness.

“Jesus Christ, do you fuckin’ lube yourself up to get into this? Why’s it so damn tight?” Bucky does a weird little shimmy (in theory it shouldn’t be attractive and yet Steve’s weak, shameless eyes betray him, instantly zeroing in on those rotating hips), still trying vainly to free himself.

It takes another minute or two for the sense to start slowly trickling back into his brain before Steve’s mouth is finally able to produce words again. “There’s an extra hidden zipper on the side,” he points out belatedly, although at this point, it’s really not that much of a help, “and I’ve never heard you complain about how tight it is before,” he adds with a grin, just to be an asshole.

It earns him the exact response he was hoping for.

Bucky scoffs but the corner of his mouth betrays him, slipping up into a leering half-smile. “We still talkin’ about the suit?”

“You tell me,” Steve returns, finally moving forward to help him.

It requires a great deal of complaining, contorting, and at one point Steve almost takes a metal elbow to the face, but eventually Bucky’s gotten himself free and they both collapse somewhat breathlessly onto the bed, Bucky in his boxers (“Wasn’t gonna free-ball it in there - I’m not an _animal_ , Stevie”) and Steve shirtless but still mostly clothed by his black jogging pants.

They lay like that for a while, side by side and staring quietly upwards, until Bucky eventually lifts his head from the mattress and notes, “You’re only wearing one sock.”

Steve snorts. “Yeah. Heard you bangin’ around so I rushed right in here. Had to make sure you weren’t doing too much damage to the place.”

“My hero,” Bucky deadpans, causing Steve to raise an amused, skeptical eyebrow.

“That so? I seem to remember that you were the one in the suit, _Captain_ ,” he points out, feeling his face split into a big, dumb grin as he laughs, making a half-hearted effort to shift and dodge the blow when Bucky rolls over to punch him firmly in the arm.

Even after the last of the mood’s sobered back up, Bucky stays like that; propped up on one elbow and gazing down at Steve with a fond little smile that makes Steve’s lungs stutter, chest growing tight kind of like it used to, only this time it’s all glowing warmth instead of frail illness.

“You didn’t have to - you could have ripped it, I mean. To get out. I wouldn’t have cared,” Steve offers, hand automatically reaching up to trace along the smooth, hard muscle of Bucky’s bicep, cataloguing each subtle rise and dip, imagining how he’d shade it if he were to draw him like this right now.

The look Bucky gives him is positively scandalized, like Steve might as well have casually suggested he kick a baby in the face. “Nah, I couldn’t ruin it.”

 “Why?” There are at least two spare suits hidden somewhere the depths of his dresser, Steve knows, and he wouldn’t put it past Tony to keep his own sizeable collection of back-ups in the Tower.

Bucky’s eyes go soft as he leans over him, lightly pressing the pad of his metal thumb to the little crease of confusion between Steve’s eyebrows, smoothing it out. “It’s yours,” he says simply, like that explains everything.

Steve’s lungs tighten again and he swallows, feeling himself flush a little as he drinks in the sight above him: Bucky, stretched out with charming, lazy ease; all solid strength offset with that soft, wide mouth and hair falling forward into his eyes.  It’s a scene Steve’s seen a thousand times before, but it never gets old. Never ceases to make his pulse speed up and his palms grow damp and his stomach go all sweet and warm like melted ice cream. How did he get so lucky?

He doesn’t realize he’s said that last part out loud until Bucky drops his head, nose burrowing against Steve’s throat as he huffs out a quiet chuckle. “Such a goddamn sap, Rogers.” There’s unmistakable adoration in his voice and Steve shivers when he feels a hot mouth start moving along his clavicle, pausing every so often to suck marks into his skin.

“Your sap,” Steve says, working fingers into Bucky’s tangled hair and cradling the back of his head, because yeah, he might just be the biggest lovestruck dope this side of the Hudson, but he’s perfectly fine with that.

“My sap,” Bucky confirms, breath warm against the slope where Steve’s neck meets his shoulder, and then he presses down and _bites_ , and Steve’s body practically surges off the mattress.

“Jesus, Bucky,” he gasps out, brain reeling at the sudden shift from light tenderness into clear and bold intent.

He can feel Bucky’s answering smile stretch slow against his skin. “That was a long run,” he speaks into Steve’s shoulder, tone pleasantly conversational in a way that starkly contrasts how his hand’s begun creeping down the flat plane of Steve’s stomach, “you got anything left in the tank, Stevie?”

Steve’s reply comes in the form of a slightly embarrassing whimper because Bucky’s fingers are already well on their way to tugging down the waistband of his pants; touch sure and hot and clearly impatient. Once they’ve accomplished their task, Bucky sits back on his heels to admire the view; a low, pleased noise escaping his own throat when he finds Steve already more than half way hard.

“ _Oh_. You liked that, huh? Me wearin’ your clothes?”

“Yes,” Steve gasps, struggling to form words as fingers revisit skin and that strong, warm grip starts to curl around him. “Why’d you do it?”

“Got curious.” Bucky watches the work of his own hand for a moment before glancing back up with a smirk. “For the record, I like me in your clothes too.”

Oh jeez.

Steve’s head flops back onto the mattress and he groans like he might be dying. Maybe he is. It certainly feels like it. “God, Buck.”

“Might not want to think about him right now, considering what I’m about to do to you,” comes Bucky’s reply and then the tight grip of his hand is gone, replaced by the wet heat of his mouth, and it takes every ounce of Steve’s strength not to lose it right there.

It’s hot and tight and slippery and Steve can barely think, barely remember to breathe, but almost just as soon as Bucky’s lips had first wrapped around him, they’re quick to pull away again.

Steve groans at the loss, shivering a little when cool bedroom air hits his erection.

Bucky redirects his mouth to Steve’s abs, the jut of his hipbone, and lower to the crease of his inner thigh, coming close, teasing, but never once actually returning to where Steve needs him most.

“Gonna come for me?” Bucky’s voice is low and gravelly, doing nothing at all to help Steve’s current predicament.

 “I will if you ever actually _touch_ me,” he complains to the ceiling, not able to look back down yet because he’s already too far gone and one more glance at Bucky’s face – mouth hovering red and wet above the length of Steve’s painfully hard arousal – is going to send him straight over the edge.

 “Oh, ‘s that what you want?” Bucky answers mildly, like he hasn’t just spent the better part of twenty minutes gradually unraveling Steve into a panting, groaning mess. He finally brings a hand back to the base of Steve’s cock, giving it a single, solid squeeze that drags a half-pained, ragged noise out of the depths of Steve’s chest.

“God, you’re a jerk,” Steve rasps, trying to arch up into the touch, but a metal hand’s pressing down hard on his pelvis, keeping him annoyingly still. There isn’t much that can hold him down, take the full brunt of his strength and weight without fear of harm, but Bucky can and knowing that has an intoxicating sense of satisfaction flooding Steve’s bloodstream because _they_ _fit_. They fit together in ways he never could’ve imagined. Perfectly matched, like two halves of a whole. They’d been that way since kids – one solid, inseparable unit - and even now, no matter what changes around them, it’s clear that no amount of time, torment or serum is ever going to tear them apart.

Bucky huffs out a short, amused laugh. “Love you too, Stevie,” he returns, tone not quite biting nor bland enough to pass for sarcasm, and the fact that he _means it_ is almost too much for Steve to handle like this.

“Get back to work,” he says, grinning and giving Bucky a bit of a kick with his foot, because there’s too much emotion gathering in his chest, too much wonder and gratitude over the fact that Bucky’s safe and happy and here with him, and if he doesn’t force it all back, it’s going to sneak out in the form of wet eyes and choking sobs. Bucky wasn’t far from the truth when he pegged Steve as a sap.

“Yes _sir_ ,” Bucky replies, offering up a sloppy two-fingered salute that makes Steve roll his eyes, but before he can formulate any kind of smart remark, Bucky’s mouth is back on him and all Steve can do is clench handfuls of bedsheets and pant out half-formed obscenities.

There’s clear purpose in Bucky’s actions now, foregoing any more teasing in favour of forcing Steve to the brink with an almost startling swiftness.

“I’m gonna come,” Steve gasps out, one part as a warning to Bucky, and one part pure surprised discovery. God, he’s never come this quick in his life; even before the serum he had more self-control than he does right now. Trust Bucky to change all of that.

Despite the warning Bucky doesn’t let up. If anything he redoubles his efforts, focusing his tongue’s attention on the head of Steve’s cock before taking the full length back down, and when Steve bumps the back of his throat, feeling those muscles flutter tight around him, before he can even draw a full breath he’s coming, curling up off the mattress and panting open-mouthed as he stares at the dark head of hair still moving between his legs.

“Buck,” he finally manages, when the sensation gets to be too much and he feels shivery and sensitive all over.

Bucky hums around him, head bobbing one more time before he pulls almost all the way off, letting the wet, sticky tip of Steve’s cock rest against his lips for a moment while he works to catch his breath.

“Jesus Christ,” Steve breathes, a little mesmerized by the sight, “get the hell up here.”

Bucky chuckles at that, voice sounding extra rough, and knowing the exact cause of why, that _Steve’s dick was just down his throat_ , is enough to make Steve close his eyes and groan. God. He survived the serum, downing a plane, and sinking to the bottom of the Potomac with a belly full of bullets, just to be killed now by that fucking voice.

“C’mere,” he urges again, blindly reaching for any part of Bucky he can find and eventually hauling him up with one hand wrapped firmly around a metal bicep.

From there, there’s a fumble of eager hands as they both work to shove Bucky’s boxers down his legs and then they’re flush together; Bucky’s cock fitted snugly in the crease where Steve’s hip meets his thigh and he’s hard as granite, leaking at the tip as he starts to grind his hips, panting into Steve’s neck.

The solid heat of Bucky’s body makes it impossible for Steve to contain the moan that climbs from his throat as Bucky presses his weight down harder, hips still moving with rough, delicious friction.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky murmurs against his throat, whole body beginning to shudder the closer and closer he gets to relief.

Nudging his nose against Bucky’s temple, Steve wordlessly urges his face back up until they’re staring at each other, millimeters apart and god, Bucky is sin personified like this; eyes dark and cheeks flushed and lips parted as he breathes shaky, panting breaths.

Even at his strongest Steve could never resist that mouth and he certainly can’t now, so he surges up, needing to taste, closing the distance between them.

Bucky responds automatically - enthusiastically – and Steve loses himself in the kiss until he feels some of the weight over him lightening. When Steve’s eyes flick open, he sees that Bucky’s shifted to support himself on one arm, snaking the other down between their bodies to take himself in hand, body hovering on top of Steve’s. Always on top. They’d learned that fairly early on; a too-eager Steve pressing him down into the mattress, caging him in with arms and thighs, and Bucky’s body had gone rigid, frozen for an instant before he was shoving Steve away with enough force that, had it been anyone else, Steve probably would have been nursing bruises for a week.

A spark of guilt still twinges in his stomach when he remembers the look of panicked terror on Bucky’s face, the way Bucky’s voice had cracked as he stammered apologies over and over. But god no, it hadn’t been Bucky’s fault. Would never be his fault. Steve had pushed too far too fast; he was the only one to blame, and when he’d voiced that particular opinion, it’d earned him a sharp, irritated look from Bucky and an emphatic, “Bull. Shit. You wanna lay blame, you put it on HYDRA,” followed by an especially enthusiastic blow job that’d wiped away every single thought in Steve’s mind except for _Bucky, Bucky, Bucky_.

“Whatever you’re thinking, stop,” comes that voice he can’t ever get enough of, and Steve blinks himself out of the memory as Bucky meets his eyes; gaze warm and open and serious. “You’ve got that fuckin’ kicked puppy look on your face,” he explains. “Not everything’s gotta be your fault, Stevie.” 

A piece of him ( _all_ of him) wants to argue with that, but instead he catches Bucky’s mouth in another kiss, deep and apologetic, before drawing back just enough to murmur, “Tell me what you need, Buck. I want to make this so goddamn good for you.”

That pulls a low noise from Bucky as he drops his forehead to rest on Steve’s shoulder. “Need – need just a little more.”

Each of his breaths are coming out shallow and ragged and Steve can feel him, hard and hot and leaking as he jerks himself off against Steve’s hip, the head of his cock occasionally bumping Steve’s skin and drawing half-formed moans from the both of them and _oh god_ , it’s impossibly, sinfully hot.

“Beautiful,” Steve says, slipping an arm down between their bodies until his fingers meet Bucky’s, curling around his grip and setting a new pace, encouraging him to move faster; squeeze harder. Bucky’s so wet with precome, the slide is easy and effortless, and before long he’s breathing out soft, vulnerable little _ah, ah_ noises against the side of Steve’s jaw with every stroke, noises Steve knows no one in the world will ever know but him.

Swallowing around the sudden lump in his throat, Steve coaxes him through it, murmuring long strings of, “God you’re so good, I love you, c’mon Buck, c’mon...”

When Bucky comes it’s with a quiet, throaty sound, face tucked back into Steve’s neck as he spills warm and wet over both of their hands, and where their chests are pressed together, Steve can feel their heartbeats pounding perfectly in sync. Always matched. Two halves of a whole.

“I always knew you liked the suit,” Steve says afterwards, rubbing circles on Bucky’s back while he lays sprawled half on top of Steve, seeking out warmth like a cat; one leg shoved between Steve’s thighs and head pillowed on his chest.

Bucky doesn’t lift his head, but at his soft, questioning hum, Steve continues, “You used to tease me about it, always asking if I was gonna keep it after the tour was over.” He can feel his smile falter a little, hand idling at the top of Bucky’s neck, fingers memorizing the notches of his spine. “You remember any of that?”

Bucky’s so quiet, breath slow and even with his head tucked up under Steve’s chin, Steve almost thinks he’s fallen asleep until he says, “I remember a bar. You chattin’ up a pretty dame in red. When you left...Christ, I drank so much that night, I was sure I was gonna die.” He laughs, but it’s laced with a kind of sad nostalgia that makes Steve’s heart clench.

“Peggy?” He almost chokes on the name. “You remember her?”

“I remember bein’ happy for you,” Bucky replies, head shifting against Steve’s collarbone until his breath rolls light over Steve’s skin, leaving goosebumps in its wake. “Was thinkin’ it was about time someone saw what a catch you are.”

Steve opens his mouth, modesty getting him primed and ready to brush off the compliment, but before he can interject, Bucky keeps going.

“Remember that it hurt though, too,” he pauses for a minute, face pressed more firmly into Steve’s chest now, and Steve barely breathes as he waits for Bucky to sort through faint, scattered memories. “I think...I think I was wishin’ you’d smile at me the way you looked at her.”

It’s not the confession Steve expected and the words hit him like a soft punch in the gut, leaving him winded with a combination of surprise, heartache, and pure, unadulterated love.

“Buck.” His throat feels like it’s closing up, reminds him of the days when Bucky’d sit him down and breathe with him through the tight, breathless pain of an asthma attack, and yeah, he might just be crying a little right now.

Bucky notices the slight hitch in his breathing and angles his head just enough to prop his chin up on Steve’s chest, studying his face with dark, curious eyes. “You gettin’ weepy on me, Rogers?”

“No,” Steve chokes out stubbornly. It’s only one little word and yet his voice decides to crack right in the middle, giving him away. He clears his throat, tries for a little more composure. “Wanted to do more than smile at you, Buck. Always have, always will.”

That draws a wide, slow smile from Bucky as his hand slides up the mattress, metal seeking out flesh as he links their fingers together before pressing his face back into Steve’s chest, murmuring something that sounds faintly like, “Can’t fuckin’ believe you’re mine.”

 “Yours,” Steve echoes, the truth of that one, simple word reverberating through his entire body like a breath of new life as he squeezes Bucky’s fingers in return, chest filling up with a warm, bright and buoyant feeling, and as they lay there, bodies fitted together perfectly, Steve thinks of journeys, hard-fought victories and not-so-distant finish lines.

He knows exactly what he’s running for these days, and with this, with _Bucky_ , he could easily go a thousand miles more.

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because the world always needs more sappy, soft stucky :)

When he gets back from his run, the apartment’s still and quiet; bedroom door closed the way he left it nearly two hours ago when he’d first headed out.

Steve kicks off his shoes by the door then stands stock-still, listening for the sound of the shower running, or maybe the low hum of the television playing in the other room, but instead there’s nothing.

It’s completely silent. _Too_ silent for this hour.

Bucky must still be in bed.

It’s pushing ten o’clock - far later than he usually sleeps - and Steve’s heart begins a slow, sinking descent with that knowledge. There’s only one reason why Bucky would stay in bed this late: it’s not a good day.

They’ve been fewer and further between in the last few months, a fact Steve’s enormously grateful for, but it still hurts like hell to see the pain Bucky goes through when one of those bad days inevitably strike.

Careful to be quiet about it, Steve creeps into the bedroom where it’s still pleasantly dark and cool, lowering himself onto the edge of the mattress and trying not to jostle Bucky’s still-sleeping form.

He’s currently lying flat on his stomach, face buried in his pillow and sheets draped low over his hips, and Steve aches with the desire to reach out, to brush back that tangled jungle of brown hair, but he doesn’t dare touch. Not right now. There are two types of these days, they’ve come to discover: those where touch brings comfort and Bucky will cling to him like a lifeline, like the heat and sturdiness and familiarity of Steve is a refuge from the rest of the world, and then there are those where something so small as an accidental brush of shoulders or Steve’s hand covering his own is enough to make Bucky retract like a spooked alley cat, wary and on edge, tensed and ready to protect itself with sharp claws and dangerous teeth.

Steve’s not sure which he’s dealing with yet.

“You c’n touch,” Bucky mumbles permission into his pillow, startling Steve, obviously awake but eyes still shut against the soft inkling of light that’s managed to sneak its way in through the gaps in the curtains.

Steve lets out the breath he didn’t know he was holding, finally letting his hands go where they want; one combing carefully through Bucky’s hair and the other resting light over the bare expanse of his back.

Bucky hums at the touch, body still tense with what’s clearly some amount of pain, but now he turns his head, blinking dark, sleep-laden eyes at Steve and forcing the corner of his mouth up into a vague approximation of a reassuring smile.

“What’s it today?” Steve asks, quiet and low, trying to hide just how much the sight of Bucky like this breaks his heart over and over, every goddamn time. “Head, body, or both?”

Bucky tips the weight of his head further into Steve’s hand, eyes sliding back shut when Steve begins scratching lightly at his scalp.

“Shoulder’s bothering me.” His voice is hoarse and quiet, simultaneously the best and worst sound Steve’s ever heard. It could almost be a true bedroom voice if Steve let himself imagine it, pitched low and throaty and warm, only he knows it’s the opposite, born out of discomfort and frayed-edged fatigue.

Steve swallows down the lump in his throat. Swallows down the feelings of helplessness and uselessness that’ll do no good for either of them now. “How bad?” he makes himself ask, dreading the answer but needing to know.

They’ve never hit a ten on their scale, thank god, but anything over a five is usually Bucky’s way of reluctantly admitting that things are worse than he’s letting on.

Now, Bucky goes quiet, considering. “Seven.”

With a wounded noise, the crack in Steve’s heart widens all that much more. God, if he could, he’d take it all, bear all that pain for Bucky in an instant. It’s not fucking _fair_ , Steve thinks, suddenly furious at the world, not for the first time or the last. After everything Bucky’s endured, he doesn’t deserve to hurt like this. He doesn’t deserve –

“Hey,” Bucky says, pushing himself upright with a grunt before settling back against the pillows and catching Steve’s eye, looking tired and worn and inviting, “c’mere.”

Steve practically falls into his lap, going easily, no hesitation. He winds both arms around Bucky’s waist and buries his face in the sleep-warmed curve of Bucky’s neck, breathing him in. The reassuring thrum of his pulse beats steady against Steve’s ear, an ever-present whisper of _I’m here, I’m here_ , and it helps. It’s a tiny, insignificant thing, but it helps.

Bucky keeps his bad shoulder – the one that’s giving him trouble today, pink and silver and mapped with jagged scars - motionless by his side, but the other wraps tight around Steve’s back, strong and soothing all at once.

And Steve kind of wants to cry, laugh, maybe some combination of both, because of course Bucky’s still the one grounding him, looking after him, when now of all times it’s supposed to be the other way around.

“Sorry,” he mumbles into Bucky’s neck.

Bucky snorts, quiet and fond, letting the hand that’s resting on Steve’s back slide up into hair, running soft over the short, messy strands. “Not your fault.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Steve says, cheek pressed to the front of Bucky’s clavicle, feeling him breathe. _I’m sorry you’re hurting. I’m sorry you have to go through this. I’m sorry you’re still paying for something you never deserved in the first place._ That’s what he’s saying and they both know it, but...yeah, there might be a healthy dose of self-imposed guilt there too.

Against him, Bucky’s chest vibrates with a low, rumbly sound; next door to a laugh. “Don’t care. I’m gonna keep reminding you for as long as it takes to get it through that thick head ‘a yours.” He nudges Steve’s temple with his nose then quiets his voice a little, serious as he repeats, “None of this was your fault, Stevie. Nothing you coulda done, okay?”

Steve swallows roughly, trying to let those words sink in. “It’s not your fault either,” he says after a moment, when it feels like his voice will finally work again. Bucky doesn’t reply, so Steve pushes up off his chest and looks him in the eye, insisting, “Bucky, it’s _not_.”

Bucky drags his hand over his face, frowning slightly on instinct. “Yeah, I’m...I’m trying to get there.” He won’t – _can’t_ \- call himself blameless yet. Maybe he never will. But therapy is helping, Steve knows, though some days the guilt and sorrow and anger are still fresh as a brand new bruise. Ugly and throbbing, impossible to ignore.

“You will,” Steve says, certain as he pulls Bucky’s hand away from his face and links their fingers together instead. “We both will. We’ll get there together.”

The flat line of Bucky’s mouth twitches up into the slightest hint of a smile and he squeezes Steve’s hand back. “Look at us,” he says in that tone of gallows humor he perfected back in a frigid, damp foxhole somewhere around 1943. “Sorry pair of sonsabitches we are, huh?”

An ache wells up in the back of Steve’s throat. Nostalgia or the sudden desire to chuckle, he’s not sure which. Forcing it down, he retorts, “Speak for yourself, Barnes. I’m the most well-adjusted fella you’ll ever meet.”

And that makes Bucky laugh – a loud, full belly laugh that lifts Steve’s mood like streaks of sunshine breaking through the grey skies after a rainstorm. “Fuck,” he says fondly, looking at Steve in that way that always makes Steve’s insides shiver. Full of warmth but edged with something darker, hungry.

“You should roll over,” Steve says, spur-of-the-moment. “Let me do something about that shoulder.”

“Yeah?” Bucky cocks an eyebrow but doesn’t take long to comply, turning over and shifting around until he’s found a comfortable position sprawled out on his stomach, arms folded up under his head.

His back is a wide stretch of strength and scars like this; tanned skin wrapped over smooth, thick muscle and dotted with shiny pink lines, all of which Steve knows the story behind now. He’d made Bucky tell him, one by one, where each little mark came from. A knick from a blade here, a grazing bullet there.

Steve traces a finger over the arched half-moon that rests on the left side of Bucky’s lower back -  courtesy of a small, curved butterfly knife – and feels Bucky squirm under his touch.

“Thought you were gonna do my shoulder,” Bucky huffs when Steve flattens his palm down, fingers splayed wide over Bucky’s skin, teasingly close to the swell of his ass.

Steve lets his fingertips press down a bit harder and Bucky’s hips jerk once on instinct, rolling forward into the mattress, making Steve grin. “I’m getting there,” he murmurs, leaning over enough to pluck the little bottle of massage oil from its resting place on the night table before rolling up onto his knees, shuffling closer until his kneecaps brush Bucky’s nearest thigh.

It would probably make for a nicer experience – better angle, firmer pressure – but Steve never straddles him when they do this, especially when Bucky’s face down and not easily able to see his surroundings. So instead he stays sitting on his knees next to Bucky’s hip and pops open the cap of the bottle. 

“You’re gonna warm it up first, right?” Bucky’s starting to sound drowsy again, clearly relaxed and at ease like this, and god, Steve’s heart could melt from the tone of that voice. Nearly a hundred years and he’s still never heard anything better.

“Yeah Buck, I’m gonna warm it up,” he replies, indulgent and only a tiny bit teasing as he pours a small puddle of oil into one palm.

Naturally it’s that hint of teasing that Bucky latches on to and he snorts, muttering out a “Fuck you, Rogers,” that makes Steve chuckle.

“Shut it, Barnes. I’m trying to work here,” he replies, making sure to warm the oil up well between his hands before gently laying both palms flat on the backs of Bucky’s shoulder blades, giving him a second to acclimatize to the touch.

Bucky tenses for an instant then melts into the mattress even more, groaning a little when Steve slowly increases the pressure, rubbing strong and firm over the knotted muscles of his traps, carefully working all the kinks out before sliding further down to start on his deltoids.

“Jesus, that feels nice,” Bucky groans again when Steve leans more of his weight into one particularly tight bunch of muscles near Bucky’s left armpit, just below the seam where flesh meets metal.

“Wish I could do more,” Steve confesses, ghosting fingers over the rough, scarred line that’s both beautiful (a reminder that Bucky _survived_ , that he’s here with Steve now) and horrible (oh god, the things he had to endure...)

“You’re doin’ everything I need,” Bucky’s voice is muffled against his forearms, “stop beatin’ yourself up. Seem to remember you gettin’ enough of that when you were a kid.”

Steve laughs, fond and a little thick with how much these small moments of Bucky remembering, reminiscing, make his chest go tight with feeling. “Getting beat up? Yeah, I guess so.”

“Must’a knocked all the sense outta you.”

“Nah,” Steve says, sliding his hands lower to spread out wide over the middle of Bucky’s back, “spending all my time around _you_ did that.”

Bucky huffs out a laugh, low and warm and rumbling. “Fuck, can’t a guy get a decent rubdown without his character bein’ insulted?”

“Nope,” Steve answers pleasantly, digging his thumbs into the small of Bucky’s back now.

Bucky starts to respond, but whatever he’s about to say gets caught up in a moan as he immediately goes limp and lax under Steve’s hands, melting like butter.

“Right there?” Steve asks, amused.

“ _Jesus_. Right there,” Bucky confirms, so Steve doubles down on that spot, working over the tense muscle there, almost mesmerized as he watches the contrast of his pale hands slide over the honey-gold backdrop of Bucky’s skin, until Bucky’s gone all boneless and pliant and the noises he’s making are practically obscene.

Steve’s so lost in it - in making Bucky feel good - he doesn’t even realize how good _he_ feels until he glances down, sees the way the front of his sweatpants are tented, and finally registers the heavy, warm throb in his groin.

“Are you...you want to turn over now?” He can hear how breathless he sounds already and now that Steve’s aware of just how much he wants, it’s like everything’s magnified. His body’s a humming livewire; desperate for contact, needing to be touched.

Bucky must be able to hear it too, because when he rolls onto his back he’s already grinning in an amused, knowing kind of way, reaching up to pull Steve down by the back of the neck.

When they kiss, Steve’s eyes go closed and he pours everything he’s feeling – love, lust, admiration, happiness – into it. Bucky’s mouth is so, so warm and eager to reciprocate as they kiss slow and long and deep with Steve careful to stay balanced off to the side of Bucky’s body on hands and knees, always distantly aware, not wanting to overwhelm Bucky by caging him in.

Bucky looks a little starry-eyed after they part, unfocused with lust, panting and running his tongue over his lips before he asks, all low and rasping in ways that make heat flood into Steve’s veins, “You want it?”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes. He does. Oh god, he does.

Steve starts moving to lie down on his back but Bucky makes a noise of protest, stopping him with a hand on the shoulder so Steve pauses, sitting back on his heels and watching while Bucky sits up against the headboard before pulling Steve into his lap instead.

“I want...” Bucky swallows, something like nervousness briefly flitting across his features. There and gone in an instant. “Can we try it like this? If I’m sitting up, I shouldn’t...it’ll be okay, I think.”

Steve stops breathing, heart and lungs both locking up with surprise as he stares at Bucky.

“Are you sure?” he manages to croak out after a minute.

“I want to try,” Bucky answers, which isn’t exactly a yes, but it’s honest.

The last time they did this, Steve’s big body spread heavy over his, pressing him down, it resulted in Bucky literally throwing Steve off the bed with blind, seizing panic. Afterwards, he’d sat with his knees pulled up to his chest, visibly shaken, not letting Steve touch him for hours until he felt like he could trust himself again. It’s not a particularly good memory for either of them.

But Bucky wants this, wants to try, wants to steamroll over that unpleasant memory with something good, something worth remembering, and besides, when has Steve ever been able to deny him anything?

“Alright,” Steve says, wetting his lips, already feeling his pulse pick up with equal parts excitement and apprehension as he repeats, more surely now, “Alright.”

That seems to be all the confirmation Bucky needs because before the word’s even made it fully out of his mouth Bucky’s kissing him. It’s not a frantic, hurried sort of thing; instead it’s slow and deep, but no less heated because of it.

Steve breathes out a groan against Bucky’s mouth, shifting in his lap until he’s properly straddling Bucky’s hips and the hard ache of his cock is pressed tight alongside Bucky’s own.

“Still got that oil?” Bucky murmurs against his mouth, and now Steve’s _all_ excitement, anticipation, lit up desire as he snatches up the bottle from where it’s been abandoned, laying half-obscured by blankets at the far edge of the bed.

“Wanna help me out?” he asks, already panting a little as they both work with eager, fumbling hands to shove down Steve’s sweatpants; Steve clumsy with impatience, Bucky too busy sucking hickies into Steve’s neck to spare any attention on what his hands are currently doing.  

Bucky huffs a laugh against his neck, breath warm and voice velvety low as he replies, “You even gotta ask?”

“I’m being _polite_ ,” Steve replies with a grin, and that actually makes Bucky’s shoulders shake with the amount he starts laughing.

“Sweetheart,” he says sweetly, fondly, still chuckling a little as his hands slide down to squeeze Steve’s ass possessively and Steve tries not to orgasm on the spot, “you ain’t ever been polite a day in your life.”

“You really want to argue that now?” A little breathless, Steve shivers when Bucky’s fingers begin to explore, brushing between his cheeks and over his hole, touch brief and teasing enough to make Steve lose his goddamn mind. “I thought we were on the same page. I thought - ” he tries not to actually moan out loud when Bucky’s fingers return, slick with oil and insistent now as one slowly presses into Steve, “ – thought we had a plan.”

“Oh, we do,” Bucky easily agrees, watching Steve with the lazy, proud smirk of a well-fed feline as Steve tips his head back and pants his way through the delicious slow stretch and burn, “but I can multi-task.”

Steve wants to laugh, but it comes out more like a choked-off moan when a second finger joins the first. “Giving me a hard time –”

“And giving you a _hard time_ ,” Bucky finishes for him, shifting his hips up enough to grind his erection against the flat of Steve’s lower stomach.

This time, Steve manages an actual laugh, though it still comes out kind of shaky given the way Bucky’s fingers are still fucking in and out of him so slow and easy. “Jesus, that was bad, even for you,” he says, but there’s no hiding the grin that pulls at his lips, the unmistakable warmth in his tone.

“Yeah?” Bucky murmurs, watching him with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. “Wanna give me somethin’ better to do with my mouth, then?”

“God, Buck,” Steve breathes, fisting one hand in the back of Bucky’s hair and pulling their mouths together, kissing him like he’s air and Steve’s starving for it, and maybe he is, Steve thinks. Maybe Bucky’s been his air all along. Because it’d certainly felt like an agonizingly slow, creeping death, enduring all those years without him.

“You ready for me?” Bucky mumbles against his lips, now three fingers deep and making Steve shake all over.

“Yes. Yes,” Steve gasps, forehead pressed to Bucky’s as his hips roll back onto Bucky’s hand. He needs it, oh god, he needs it, he needs it, he needs it.

He hears the click of a bottle cap again, then Bucky’s fingers are gone, leaving him strangely cold and exposed until the emptiness is replaced with the thick, hot head of Bucky’s cock, pressing in firm and steady and so right, Steve can’t do anything but kiss him again, stifling his moans against Bucky’s mouth.

They start a slow, rocking rhythm like that, hands roaming each others’ skin, lips never parting more than an inch, until one particularly well-angled thrust of Bucky’s hips has Steve’s insides lighting up with bright white pleasure and he has to tear his mouth away to call out Bucky’s name to the ceiling.

“Christ, you make me fuckin’ crazy,” Bucky confesses against Steve’s throat, kissing a hot line up his neck, jaw, behind his ear. “Goddamn, sweetheart.”

“Buck,” Steve groans, incapable of any other words at the moment. “ _Bucky_ , god...”

“Yeah,” Bucky’s next breath hitches and rolls his hips with more purpose when Steve starts tightening up around him, “yeah, that’s it. You gonna come all pretty for me?”

Normally a line like that would have Steve blushing redder than the rings on his shield, but he’s too far gone, beyond any kind of embarrassment now, so instead he only gasps out a noise that might be a yes, staring into the familiar grey-blue of Bucky’s eyes, and when Steve comes it’s the big, arcing swoop and crash of a breaking wave. The crack of a white-hot lightening strike reaching across the sky. The final shimmering burst of a supernova. Something so much bigger, so much more, than himself.

Distantly, he can feel Bucky’s thighs go tense under him, hear him whispering rough, filthy-sweet words of praise against Steve’s temple, and then he’s spilling into Steve with a ragged, pleasure-filled sound, and that makes Steve shiver and lose himself all over again. Lose himself in the innate, perfect way their bodies react to each other. In the heady, chest-warming knowledge that he made Bucky feel _good_.

They stay like that for a while, until sweat cools and Bucky softens completely, slipping out of Steve. It’s wet and messy and a little uncomfortable, but Steve doesn’t get up yet. Instead, he rolls off Bucky’s lap and lets himself flop face-up onto the mattress, smiling when Bucky automatically follows him like the pull of a magnet and arranges himself half on top of Steve, face tucking into the curve of his neck.

The steady thud of Bucky’s heartbeat and soft puff of his breath warming Steve’s skin lulls Steve into a drifting, half asleep state until he rouses himself enough to ask, “How’s that pain level now?”

Bucky makes a sleepy, indecipherable noise into Steve’s neck, the weight of his metal arm comfortably warm and heavy where it’s draped over Steve’s stomach. “Negative two hundred,” Bucky mumbles, still sounding a little sex-drunk.

Steve chuckles, turning his head until he can press his smile into Bucky’s hair. “I should get us cleaned up.”

The arm over his stomach curls and tightens, keeping him in place. “Mm, no. Later.”

And it’s true, Steve supposes. They have the time. Today, tomorrow, another twenty, fifty, one hundred years, side by side like always. There’s really no rush.

So he pulls up the blankets, slides his arms around Bucky and agrees, “Yeah, later.”

 

 


End file.
